


Subverting Expectations

by Aelys_Althea



Series: Greater Expectations [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Sex, Clubbing, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, M/M, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SEQUEL to Greater Expectations - Albus and Scorpius have been dating for eight years. It was fantastic. It was perfect. They wouldn't change a thing. Or at least THEY wouldn't. Their friends - or one friend in particular - decided for them that shaking things up a little was definitely a necessity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: this fic contains sort of kink and smut and... if you don't like it, please don't read it.
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is based on the wonderful work of JK Rowling's original Harry Potter series, exclusive of The Cursed Child. I make no profit from this but for the enjoyment of writing and all thanks and appreciation go to the original author of the series herself. Thank you!

_~Albus~_

With a groan at the abuse of the midday sunlight, I stepped out of the little Thai restaurant. My hand immediately rose to shade my eyes and I squinted accusingly up at the early summer sadist.

"And _this_ is why you need to get yourself a pair of sunglasses."

Glancing to my side, I rolled my eyes at Scor's smirk as he followed me through the door, sliding a pair of sleek shades onto his own eyes. No one would pick that not even ten years ago he would have been scandalised at the thought of he, scion of the Malfoy family, wearing something so commonplace as _Muggle shades_. Damn him for wearing them so well, too.

"Well, pardon me for not being the paragon of practicality," I said, resisting his attempt to loop an arm around my shoulder only for a moment before allowing it. I never could say no to Scor for long. Even if, after all these years, I still didn't really feel comfortable with displays of affection in public. "We can't all be as forward thinking as you, Scor."

"No, of course not," Scor smirked. He raised a hand and held it above my eyes in a mimicking shade of my own lowered fingers. "But your poor abused eyes shouldn't have to suffer for it. Allow me."

"What, so you'll be my permanent sun-shade now, will you?"

"Anything for you, dear."

"Oh dear god, I think I may vomit."

Scor and I turned in synchrony to Rhali as she too stepped from the restaurant, squinting in a glare at the sudden abuse of the sun. Or maybe that was just a glare towards us. We'd been together for over eight years now and Rhali still couldn't quite accept PDAs. Not even the sight of them, even if they were exaggerated to tease, to jest, to make a point.

"If you can manage, please make sure you aim for the gutter rather than the sidewalk," Scor said without missing a beat. Rhali poked her tongue out at him but fell into step beside me anyway, hands slipping into the pockets of her oversized, patchy jacket and making room for Mary as she too ducked out of the door. Rhali proceeded to scathingly condescend Scor's behaviour as we made our way from the Thai restaurant.

Shaking my head at the banter that ensued – because when Rhali and Scor got going, rebounding off one another in their verbal sparring, it was nigh impossible to interrupt - I glanced over my shoulder towards Mary following a step behind us as she distractedly adjusted her satchel on her shoulder. Mary – quiet, unobtrusive Mary who looked like nothing if not a little mouse with her big brown eyes and crease of perpetual worry upon her brow that it had taken me months to deduce was actually just her resting face and not _real_ worry – offered me a amused little smile upon noticing my attention and fell into step at Scor's other side. She tucked her chin to hide that smile in the folds of her scarf because, naturally, Mary was wearing a scarf even in summer. It was sort of her thing.

It had been two years since I'd finished uni, one since Mary had done so, and yet we'd still remained friends. It said something of how well she slotted into our little friendship group, even more of how she got along instantly with Ozzy despite seeing him only sporadically, and hadn't simply drifted away after we'd all graduated. It probably helped that the research facility I was associated with, growing medicinal magical and non-magical plants with many tailored for pharmaceuticals, was affiliated with the nursery she'd taken up residence in. Whenever a phone call was needed, my boss Kelly always directed me to be the one to do it. Connections always stretched pretty far in my books.

I'd been working at Asphodel Research Facility pretty much since I'd gotten out of uni. Surprisingly, too, because I honestly hadn't expected to fall on my feet in a job with any semblance of speed. Mary had a harder time of it, the poor thing. I didn't want to brag or anything but it's true that by keeping my ear to the ground I'd managed to hear word of a suitable opening for her at Spikes and Sprouts Nursery. She loved it there, too, so was I pleased with myself? Damn right I was.

Scor had similarly finished his apprenticeship in Potioneering, at about the same time that I had my own studies. He was, naturally, a prodigy in his field and so had professors and brewers clamouring at his metaphorical gates in a bid for his attention. The lucky prat got the pick of the litter, I always remind him fondly. Credit where credit is due and all, though, because he worked his arse off those five years to push himself so high, to become as distinguished as he was. He had his name to half a dozen published papers by the end of his second year – show off that he was – and could practically choose wherever the hell he wanted to go when he finished up his thesis.

I was so proud of him, the genius bastard.

That was Rhali's name for him, anyway, alongside her continued and largely considered to be overused title of 'Mr Prefect'. She clung to that name like shit to the sole of a boot, despite Scor's long-suffering sighs and pleas to "Move on, you petty juvenile". He'd even come up with his own range of names to counteract hers, from Miss Hacker in deference to her pursuit of the cryptography route in mathematics to my personal favourite 'Pi-Bald'. He'd been so chuffed with his play on words with that one that I couldn't help loving it despite its cringeful use of a pun.

And Ozzy… well, no one quite knew what Ozzy did. He was around occasionally, resurfacing every so often with a knock to mine and Scor's door or – less frequently Rhali's – to crash on a couch for anywhere between a couple of days to a month. Which was actually weird because he had his own flat; I guessed he probably got a bit lonely all by himself though, and mostly just used it as a dumping ground for all of the knick-knacks he'd collected and would continue to collect on his travels. He had some great stories, though, and I did still love spending time with him even after all these years of temporary disappearance in which I was never entirely certain he was still actually alive throughout. I'd built a wall of postcards in my dining room that he'd sent me, each detailing his travels and the adventures he'd undertaken.

For the most part he sounded like he was having a blast, with the only difficulty being that he had to try and juggle expenses. But, always the free spirit, Ozzy pretty much took up anything that he could find – I meant quite literally anything. He'd been the typical bartender, the barista, the check-out chick and the usher, but he'd also been a ski instructor, a dog groomer, a tour guide – in Italy, of all things; he couldn't even speak Italian, or at least he hadn't at first – and a florist. He'd even taken a short stint as a field environmentalist, which I felt so proud for, especially when he said that he could hardly pass up the opportunity with myself as his friend. God bless his little cotton socks.

Hopefully, all things going to plan and with the hopes that he would actually stick to his word this time, Ozzy would be coming back to London within the week. Hopefully. It had been far too long that he'd been away and his interruption of the increasingly aggressive – but always good-natured, supposedly – argumentativeness between Scor and Rhali was always appreciated. He was like a fire blanket smothering a happily and dangerously burning flame.

"… all over your patent leather shoes," Rhali was saying, the customary sarcastic ring to her tone drawing my attention once more. She was half leaning into me as we walked, which had the unfortunate domino effect of pushing me to lean into Scor and he into Mary. Poor Mary nearly slipped off the edge of the gutter, rolling her eyes at me as I glanced around Scor once more to offer an apologetic wince. It wasn't like she could have gotten run over, not in the street we wandered down, but still.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rhali," Scor sniffed, straightening his back further in its already perfect posture. He looked and sounded the right pompous arse with his perfectly groomed hair, his tailored suit and the glossy blackness of his glasses. "I don't were leather."

"Pleather?"

"Of course."

Rhali snorted. "Cheap-skate."

In an almost exact mimic of that Rhali had just given, Scor snorted too. "Cheap? Me?" He gestured to himself in such an assuming manner that I couldn't help rolling my own eyes and sharing a smirk with Mary over Scor's shoulder. "Have you met me, Rhali?"

"He has a point there," I said, and Scor flashed me a smile as though I'd given him a compliment.

"Probably shits gold into his marble toilet seat," Mary muttered, almost too quietly to be heard, which set Rhali to snickering. Mary – sweet, quiet little Mary – had what I had once found a surprisingly dirty mouth upon her.

"It's not marble, it's porcelain," Scor sighed, as though _that_ was the only issue he had with the statement. "Ask Al, he shares the toilet. We share _everything_ , don't we, dear?"

"Don't want to hear it!" Rhali exclaimed, reaching around me to swat at Scor's shoulder as I laughed and elbowed Scor for his baiting. "Honestly, Ally, talk some sense into your boyfriend. He's got his head in the clouds, he does."

"Me?" I asked innocently. "I hardly see what I have to do with the situation."

"Well, I don't wear leather because it would upset _you_ ," Scor pointed out. He made it sound like the effort was physically burdensome.

"Aw, darl," I drawled, stroking his arm simperingly. "You do that all for me? I'm touched. Truly."

"Ally, you're killing me," Rhali muttered. Scor and I exchanged a glance and dissolved into chuckles of our own.

It was always that way with Rhali. She always bemoaned any – and I meant _any_ – sort of intimate relationship, any sort of romance, and wasn't ashamed to show it. But that didn't mean she begrudged the relationship itself. I knew for a fact that if anything she very much approved of it. It was just that any display of pampering fluff or lustful tendencies seemed to trigger her gagging reflex.

The streets of London should have been more packed than they were at midday lunch rush hour. Luckily for us, however, the thick congestion of the Muggle city was thinned markedly in the Wizarding backstreets. Veiled from Muggle access unless they had an understanding of Wizarding reality like Mary, it was a welcome respite from the thickly hastening crowds. Not to mention the fact that the Wizarding world tended to use cars far less that Muggles – why wouldn't we, when we could just Apparate everywhere? – so the roads packet bumper-to-bumper in Muggle London were all but empty except for the occasional passing bus or, even more occasionally, a car. Most pedestrians actually walked _on_ the road, and God help anyone who dared to drive through them; the nerve, for a _car_ to drive on the _road_!

We rounded a corner on our way towards the nearest Apparation point and for the first time were actually waylaid in our passage. Scor drew me to a halt as we waited upon the indecisiveness of a pack of fluttering butterflies, the girls likely barely out of school and all clustered around the windowed shop front of… ah, of course. Alexander McQueen. The name wouldn't have meant anything to me in my teenage years but, well… I had Scor to keep me updated with the finer things in life. I'd always been sort of detachedly aware of his appreciation of fashion but it hadn't fully bloomed until after we'd left Hogwarts. Certainly not the flamboyant kind, and he expressed open exasperation for anything more outrageous than the minimalistic fineness and subtlety. Now, anyone could tell even at a glance that he could write a speech on the difference between Cashmere, Alpaca and Vicuña. I hadn't even known there was more than one type of wool until he had sighed heavily and sat me down to explain it in slow, deliberate words. It was probably the most boring conversation I've ever had in my life.

I didn't like to make assumptions, but from the bubbly excitement and nattering exchange of the group of girls before us I would lay money on the fact that if I were to align their understanding of the fashion world with either Scor or myself then they would most likely lean more towards my end of the spectrum. They were each dolled up to the nines, dressed in an array of brightly coloured skirts and shirts and blouses and shorts, handbags a spray of colour in an already bouquet-like range of brightness. There was much pointing and many pining sighs as they gestured towards the precious few items on display in the window. Seriously, there were only about three headless, limbless mannequins to show off the wares. I guessed such a high-end designer didn't need to pose for the masses.

"Like they could even afford them," Scor muttered at my side. There wasn't as much condescension behind his words as I might have expected, actually, and it only took a glance towards him to deduce why. My boyfriend was staring at the displays with single-minded focus and even though I couldn't see behind his shades I would guess that he barely blinked. I shook my head and failed to withhold a smirk; Scor's sunglasses didn't do much to hide the direction of his attention.

"Oh, and you'd know all about how much a dress at Alexander McQueen's would cost, hm?" Rhali asked, glaring at the chattering girls as they gradually dispersed with longing glances over their shoulders. We started off in the direction we were headed once more.

"Of course I do," Scor replied, finally shaking himself loose from his attentiveness to the shop window as it disappeared behind them. "People know these sort of things."

"People? I highly doubt _people_ know such things. You're the outlier, Scor."

"I am not. Mary knows what she's talking about when I mention a designer or a style. Don't you, Mary?"

As one, mine, Scor and Rhali's attention all turned towards Mary. The worry on her brow might have made me feel guilty for spearing her with attention, except there was exasperation in her gaze that I recognised as being her real response. She peered up at Scor for a moment before shrugging one shoulder and to my surprise shrugged with a nod. "Doesn't take a genius."

_Huh. There you go. I wouldn't have picked it from her._

"You hear that, Rhali?" Scor glanced towards his debating opponent. "'Doesn't take a genius'."

"Oh, then Ally and I must be mentally challenged, then." Rhali narrowed her eyes, daring Scor to agree with her interpretation.

"I'm not denying that," I offered with a shrug. Scor, arm still resting around my shoulders, flicked a finger at my chin. "Ow."

"You're not 'mentally challenged'," Scor corrected. "You just don't take the time to learn."

"Because it's not useful to me in the slightest."

"It could be."

"It won't be. I have exactly zero inclination to spend more than minimal expenses upon my clothing. Why spend a couple of hundred dollars on a shirt when I can buy one for five pounds at Beyond Retro or Rokit or something?"

Scor sighed as though the thought of my shopping endeavours physically pained my. "Why don't you ever just splurge a little for yourself? Is it such a crime to want nice things?"

I shrugged again. "I like nice things. But clothes are…"

"Ally has a reputation to uphold," Rhali cut in. She swept a hand at my overall ensemble – admittedly overworn jeans and a simple shirt with my customary canvas shoes that had certainly seen better days – and raised a pointed eyebrow. "Besides, I would think the juxtaposition to you, Scor, would just make your head swell further. Make you look better and all."

"I honestly don't care what Al looks like. I care about his reasoning behind buying and wearing things which could very readily be replaced." Scor's tone still held a long-suffering ring to it, but I barely heard it. I was frowning at Rhali instead, my thoughts turned inwards. I knew for a fact that I didn't actually dress all that badly. Just that… next to Scor…

Well, anyone next to Scor would look like a pig that had just hauled itself from the slop. No, Scor wasn't flamboyant, and he disdained grandeur or pompousness in a way that had become fairly typical of the Malfoy family despite their wealth. But even so, anyone who looked at Scor and I would consider him _way_ out of my league.

"… wish you would just let me dress you up a little sometimes. It's not like I don't have the money to do so," Scor was saying, his attention turned towards me. There was a note of request in his tone but it was entirely devoid of the discomfort that I would expect had the situation truly annoyed him. He didn't care. I knew that. Just that –

"Oh, that I'd pay to see," Rhali chimed in. A crooked grin spread across her face as we turned another corner. "If you should choose to torture Ally as such, please let me book a seat for the show."

"I'm not a circus freak, Rhali," I sighed.

"Perhaps you should look a little closer to home in terms of re-outfitting wardrobes before judging others?" Mary muttered, seemingly more to herself than to anyone in particular.

Scor barked in laughter as Rhali spared Mary a scowl. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Seriously, though," Scor continued, speaking more to me than anyone else. I tilted my head to glance up at him as we paused at a crossing. "I'd actually probably prefer to buy _you_ something than for you to actually get me a present for my birthday this year. Would you let me?"

I scrunched my nose. "That's hardly a birthday present for you."

"It is. It's what I'd want."

"No, it's –"

"What, you want to actually go out and buy Ally a new wardrobe?" Rhali chuckled like a parent condescending the exploits of their foolish child. "You might want to go somewhere _other_ than a women's clothing store for that though."

"Actually, Alexander McQueen sells menswear as well as women's," Scor corrected. "I'm personally more appreciative of their women's attire, though. Not really for myself, but it has a certain appeal that is lacking in menswear."

Rhali smirked, half-turning to sidle in a crab-like walk as we passed along the next block and rows of shopfronts. There was a significant spread, a mixture of Wizarding and Muggle brands that had mingled more and more profoundly over the years. I actually recognised some of them.

"You got a thing for skirts we don't know about, Scor?" Rhali asked, her eyebrow quivering suggestively.

"Obviously," Mary muttered, which earned her a shaded frown from Scor.

"I do not have a 'thing for skirts'," Scor said, his fingers beginning an agitated tapping on my shoulder. I knew the feeling, being attacked from both sides by Rhali and Mary; Mary hardly seemed an active participant most of the time but when she was she could slide in some very choice remarks. "I can just appreciate a piece of beauty when I see it."

"Shame you haven't got a girlfriend to shower trinkets and lacy frills onto," Rhali said, false sympathy in her tone. I didn't think Rhali'd ever been truly sympathetic. She probably didn't know how to be.

"No," Scor shook his head sharply before raising his chin. His arm tightened deliberately around my shoulders. "I have a boyfriend and that's _far_ better."

I saw it. The very second the thought occurred to Rhali I saw it. It was almost a manic gleam in her eye, like the obsessive fixation of an eagle sighting its prey. A different and entirely terrifying smile spread slowly across her face. I felt myself draw unconsciously into Scor's side; anything to avoid the pulsing, sadistic aura emanating from her. I don't think Scor even noticed, pointedly ignoring Rhali as he was. "Oh, I have the _best_ idea."

"You're not going to kill anyone, are you?" I asked warily, pausing in step as we rounded the last block to the outlined courtyard of the East End Apparation Point. Scor glanced towards Rhali worriedly and even Mary raised her eyebrows, curious as to her reply.

Rhali, with deliberate casualness, took a step backwards and leaned against the brick wall of behind her. Her lips quivered with the urge to spread further; it really was terrifying to witness. "No, not yet. I just have a thought for Scor's birthday present."

"Should I be worried about the 'not yet'?" Mary pondered aloud.

"What have you got planned?" Scor asked, his tone faintly nervous in a way that only Rhali could elicit. I couldn't blame him as I felt my own anxieties kick it up a notch as her restraint finally crumbled and her smile spread broadly. Not real anxieties – I'd had those largely under control for years – but certainly I was unnerved. Rhali was _terrifying_.

"All in good time, my friend. All in good time." Rhali made a shooing gesture towards Scor in a pointed dismissal. "Go on, tally ho. Off with the pair of you; I have a mission to accomplish."

"Weren't you going to your parents' this afternoon?" I asked.

Rhali shrugged. "More important things take precedence, Ally."

"Now I'm really worried."

"You should be," Rhali acknowledged with a sharp nod of her head. "Go on. Off with you. But you," she paused and pointed a finger at Mary. "You're coming with me."

"Must I?" Mary said with a heavy sigh.

"It's easier just to go with it," I offered, as though Mary didn't know that perfectly well herself. "Scor just hasn't realised when to lie low and take it yet." Scor's silence was very telling.

Rhali stepped forwards and latched her claw-like hand around Mary's wrist. "Come on, you. I'll even let you put in for the present if you don't kick up too much of a fuss. It's fantastic, believe me. It can make up for the fact that you're not coming out for Scor's actual birthday night next week."

"Help, I'm being abducted," Mary intoned in a bored voice, with none of the panicky intonation that the words would suggest should accompany it.

"We all need to make sacrifices, Mary," I called after her as Rhali rapidly drew her back the way they'd come.

"We appreciate your compliance," Scor added. Mary shot both of us a betrayed glare over her shoulder before Rhali dragged her around the corner. As they did, Scor slowly turned his attention towards me. "Should I be afraid?"

I nodded fervently. " _We_ should be _very_ afraid," I agreed. I hadn't missed the predatory glint in Rhali's eye as she flashed us a glance just before vanishing on her 'mission'. And not towards Scor, either, but to me.

I thought I should be _very_ afraid.


	2. Be Very Afraid

_~Scorpius~_

Stepping into the club, I immediately squinted my eyes. It was customary for me to do so; my vision didn't take to the assault of flashing lights and contrasting darkness, the semi-fluorescent glow of pale clothing juxtaposed against matte skin tones and dark leather and mottled denim. I didn't really mind it all that much after I adjusted to the initial brightness, though. Al said it was because I still wasn't all that used to such exposure to Muggle artificial lighting. Rhali said it was because I was a coddled little prat. I'd admit to myself that it was probably a bit of both.

Loosening my tie, I drifted from the doorway and into the sea of bodies. It was only ten o'clock but already the club was writhing with undulating bodies, bouncing and shaking and swaying to the _thud-thud-thud_ of music in heavy base. It was an assault to the eardrums too, and yet just as with the dizzying lights I had come to quite enjoy the heady mix, the pounding music and the roiling mass of figures as they danced against one another in more of a grind than actual dancing. How my father would be horrified if he saw.

Wading through the mindless dancers, I made my way towards the booths lining walls on either side of the bar. Well, they weren't really booths but little more than a scattering of high stools and round tables already loaded with half-empty glasses. Each were cluttered with laughing, bellowing Muggles – and perhaps a few witches and wizards, I couldn't be sure – that were on their way towards achieving drunkenness if they weren't already there. Loud as their bursts of laughter where, however, I could barely hear them as I approached, scanning the tables for familiar faces.

"Ozzy!" I called as my gaze locked on the back of his curly dark head. I hadn't recognised it at first – it was more of an afro than the short fuzz he had been attempting to maintain last time I saw him – but I could never mistake his trusty 'good luck' jeans he always wore, even in the black and white ambiance of the club. They so stained and torn they barely preserved modesty, and I would swear that the slumping boots he'd stuffed them into were better suited to hiking than dining or even casual clubbing.

The instant I called out, making my way towards him, Ozzy turned on his perch of a stool with his face splitting into a wide, familiar grin. As I crossed the last of the space between us and following his very redundant beckoning gesture, I raised my eyebrows at my friend pointedly as I dropped my crossed arms into a lean upon the table. "Really, Ozzy? Another piercing?"

Ozzy smirked. He was a free spirit; that was what my friends and I had termed him and it was something he seemed to take pride in identifying himself as. A wanderer like his mother, he spent more time sleeping on the couches of his many worldly acquaintances – literally worldly, for he'd trekked halfway across Europe, Asia and the Americas in the past five years – than he did in the shoebox of a flat he owned in London. I always claimed he still carried the dirt and grime of the road upon him, lathered like a second skin, and he similarly always only grinned at me and agreed heartily that it was a special type of moisturiser and would I like to try it? Extra dust, free of charge?

Last time I'd seen him, about a month ago, he'd begun to acquire a peppering of piercings about his face. Two in the eyebrow, one in the nose matching the veritable key chains that ran the length of each of his ears. He'd about doubled that number now, with the most prominent being a distinctive silver spike through his lower lip. "Are you outfitting yourself with weaponry in case of a potential back-alley attack?" I asked, gesturing to the spike.

Ozzy snorted, smirk deepening as he raised a pint of some amber liquid to his mouth and swallowing a mouthful. "Are you objecting towards my sense of style?"

"Sense of style?" I replied, loud enough that in any other context but a club I would have received a pool of frowning glances for my trumpeting. "Do you not know me, Ozzy? _I'm_ the one with the style." I was, actually. Everyone acknowledged it, both in the Wizarding world and the Muggle. I'd taken pride in informing them all of such in the past few years. Call it embracing the chance to do so or something innately within me but it had certainly become a part of me now. But Ozzy? No, Ozzy had no style.

"Yeah, but you're stale, mate." Ozzy gestured towards me in an encompassing sweep of his hand. "Gotta try something knew."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, glancing down at the outfit I'd attired myself in after stopping home briefly to dress out of my Potioneering robes. Dark denim jeans, pale button down beneath a clean-cut grey jacket and simple tie. All of it was simple, actually, but I knew I looked good. I always made sure I looked good, down to the last strand of hair on my head. It wasn't a showman's thing as such; I just liked it.

Ozzy grinned, shaking his head, and I instantly knew that he was simply making a jibe. Such was fairly usual for him. "Oh, nothing, just that your use of fedoras have seen better days. Seriously, one doting comment from Al that he likes it and you glue it to your head?" He snickered.

I sniffed, reaching up instinctively to tug at the rim of the hat perched atop my head. "At least I can wear a hat. That dead animal you've got growing on your head at the moment would make it pretty much impossibly for you to do the same."

"Oi!" Ozzy exclaimed, but his grin only widened, white teeth glowing brightly in the club's fluorescence. "You, Mr Entitled, think you're all that. _This_ is a unique style of my own, paid and posted. You can't just insult a man's hair."

"I can and I will," I replied. "It's my birthday, so I can do whatever I want."

Ozzy nodded, his false affront – barely even managing as pretence – immediately slipping. He slid from his stool and skirted the table to lock me in a bear hug that made me feel more the victim of an attack than the affectionate subject of a friendly embrace. "That it is! Happy birthday, mate. Twenty-five and still young!"

"Urgh, Merlin but you _do_ stink of road dirt," I complained. Unfairly and inaccurately, of course – he didn't actually, for once – but Ozzy didn't even seem to hear me. Except that his crushing hug crushed just a little more forcibly for a moment. I coughed, returning the embrace in turn. "Are you trying to pop one of my lungs? When did you get so bloody big?"

Ozzy grinned, taking a step back from me, and I peered at him through the darkness and contrasting flashing of the club. He had gotten big, sod him; always taller than me, he seemed to have actually filled out a bit. How had I missed that last time I'd seen him? "That's probably 'cause of Mala. Think she's porking me up."

"That's the bint from…?"

"The girl," Ozzy corrected me with a raised eyebrow. "From Greece."

"Ah. That explains it. Greek women."

"Hey, can the stereotypes, would you?"

"They're stereotypes for a reason," I pointed out, eyeing him shrewdly as he finally slipped back into his seat. "Watch it, or you'll get fat."

"I quite like having a healthy layer of padding, thank you very much," Ozzy smirked, picking up his drink once more as he climbed back into his seat. "Sides, I'll take anything anyone can offer me. Don't know where my next meal will come from, you know?"

"I'm sure you could just pull your puppy-dog face and any passing witch or wizard – or Muggle for that matter – would toss you some scraps." I rolled my eyes as Ozzy grinned widely once more, not in the least bit resentful of my words. It was probably because they were accurate; in contrast to his shyness in school, his general keeping to the shadows, Ozzy had become quite the social butterfly over the years in a sort of one-person-at-a-time kind of way. I couldn't actually recall how many different girl and boyfriends he'd mentioned, all of them on a casual basis. He seemed to drift between them quite easily, leaving not a hint of resentment in his wake. But then that was just Ozzy's character all over; he was pretty impossible to hate. "But enough of that. Moving onto the important things. Where's my present?"

Ozzy snorted out a mouthful of drink – it smelt like beer and foamed just like it. "What are you, eight?"

I ignored him and held out a hand as I lent back onto the table. "Cough up."

"This is extortion."

"I'm simply returning the favour from _your_ birthday last year," I reminded, raising my eyebrows as his grin turned faintly sheepish. I would never let him forget the two grand I dished out the previous year to him so he could take a trip to South Africa with his then-boyfriend Paulie. Since separated, too, with Paulie by all reports still in South Africa. He still sent Ozzy postcards apparently. "You owe me."

"Christ, you'd really make demands of a poor, impoverished nomad?" Ozzy clicked his tongue. But his smile returned a moment later as his fingers dove into his pocket. "Good thing I'm prepared."

"Doesn't look like it," I said as he handed over a matchbox-sized parcel wrapped in… yes, that was Christmas paper. "Love the wrappings."

"Thanks. It's a personal touch," Ozzy replied. "Now, I would say I could swap it for a different one if you didn't like it but I've no intention of heading on back over to Rome just 'cause you want a green one instead of a blue one."

I raised an eyebrow. _Oh, so tempting_. "Ozzy, you know my favourite colour's green, you plonker."

"I think you're confusing yourself with Al again. You two spend too much – hey, Rhali!"

Ozzy cut himself off mid sentence, half rising from his seat to wave in the direction of the bar. He'd evidently been keeping an eye out for Al and Rhali; as was customary for the four of us, we kept the actual night of our birthdays as just us. Although, if Mary had wanted to come, I wouldn't have objected. The girl was a sweetheart with a sailors tongue, if unendingly shy around most people. She hated public mingling even more than my friends had in their schooling years.

I glanced over my shoulder towards the direction Ozzy waved wildly. The funny part was that he didn't even look that out of place in the club with his arms flailing as though he was having a fit; he actually appeared quite sane when compared to some of the dancers. I could make out Rhali halfway between us and the bar, ploughing through anyone who got in her way without a backwards glance because that was simply how Rhali walked. The long-limbed young woman had made an attempt at outfitting herself respectably, which I appreciated. For her, at least. A long skirt – not quite suited to clubbing, but whatever – and loose blouse with some kind of embroidery at the neckline indiscernible in the club's poor lighting, she'd managed to man-handle her hair into something of a knot beneath a vibrant headscarf. A knot that was possibly supposed to be a bun but more accurately resembled a bird's nest.

She almost bowled over a slip of a girl in too-high heels and a wrap-around handkerchief before nearly unseating a young man from his chair as she snagged it to drag towards the table Ozzy and I shared. It said something of how such an entrance was so customary of Rhali that neither of us batted an eyelid. She propped a bottle of some sort of hard liquor – always hard for Rhali – on the table and followed it with a loud clatter of her elbows. "Hello, peasants. Your queen has arrived."

"Queen?" Ozzy asked, glancing towards me. "Is this a new development?"

I shook my head. "Not hardly. Perhaps she's already drunk?"

"Well, it does take a bit," Ozzy nodded. "She probably had to start early to be even on par with the rest of us."

Rhali smacked a hand onto the middle of the table. "Hey, don't talk about me like I'm not here. I'll rip you both a new arsehole."

"Oh good, I'm about due for a new outfitting," Ozzy snickered.

I rolled my eyes at Rhali. "Please refrain. I'm quite fond of these shoes and would rather they didn't get blood-splattered."

"Wimp," Rhali said, cracking her bottle open with a snap of her hand. "You call yourself a man."

"Less of one than you," I agreed, glancing over her shoulder to the direction she'd come. "Is Al with you?"

"Mm." Rhali nodded through a mouthful. She gestured over her shoulder with her bottle, nearly smacking my cheek in the process. Maybe Ozzy was right and she really was almost drunk already. "Over at the bar. Getting a drink supposedly, but I'd wager probably getting chatted up by the fucktard in specs. Looked like a wanker if you ask me; go save him, Prince Charming."

Frowning, not so much at Rhali's suggestion to my 'Prince Charming' status – I mean, why dispute the accurate? – I scanned the length of the bar. It was packed with almost as many bodies as the dance floor, one of the main reasons that I, unlike Rhali, had delayed chasing up my own drink. Yet even had it been twice as packed and I would have had difficulty picking out one person in particular from the crowd, I prided myself on the fact that I'd be able to find out Al in a pitch-black room. Of course I could. Why wouldn't I?

I couldn't see him, though. My frowning skim located the guy in the glasses that Rhali had suggested – she was right, he looked like a tosser; all swagger and no charm – but he appeared to have shifted his focus to chatting up a pretty slip of a girl instead of his earlier target. "Where?" I asked, glancing towards Rhali.

And that was when I saw the smirk. The dangerous 'oh, I'm having so much fun tormenting you' smirk that Rhali wore so well. I immediately became wary. "Oh, you can't see him?" Rhali licked her lips like a cat who'd got the cream and spun around on her stool. "He's right there." She gestured with her bottle in a way that was about as useful as pointing to a haystack and directing me towards the needle buried at the very centre.

I rolled my eyes. "Very helpful, Rhali. I can't –"

"Oh, fuck me!" Ozzy exclaimed, loud enough that he actually drew the eyes of several surrounding clubbers. He burst into a bark of laughter a moment later, grin widest that it had been since I'd arrived. Which was to saw, he looked positively wolfish, dark eyes almost glowing. He turned towards Rhali, cackling. "Was that your idea?"

"Who else?" Rhali asked, turning back towards the table, her cat-cream smile still affixed. "With Mary's help, of course. And that," Rhali glanced towards me, raising her eyebrows, "is my birthday present to you, Scor."

"I think it would more accurately be _Al's_ birthday present," Ozzy corrected, still shaking with laughter.

I frowned between them, glancing in one moment towards the bar – the Al-less bar – and then back towards them. "What are you two going on about?"

"Mercy save, Ozzy?" Rhali suggested, tipping her head towards him.

Ozzy fell from his chair – no, that was actually a dismount; I was confused by the bodily shakes that still gripped him – and nodded, speaking through bursts of laughter. "Yeah, yeah. I'll head off the wanker. You owe me one, Scor," he called over his shoulder as he began to weave through the clubbers. He gestured to the Christmas-wrapped package in my hand. "Consider it a side-dish to the rest of your present."

Frowning, slipping said present into my pocket, I followed Ozzy's passage across the club with my eyes. His dark clothing nearly caused him to disappear in the equally dark room, but I caught sight of him once more as he resurfaced in the milling waiters at the bar. And sidled up to the swaggering wooer. And draped his arm around the young woman's shoulders who was a victim of –

"Oh, fuck me!" I spluttered. My mouth dropped open and I felt my eyes bulge. Barely hearing Rhali's descent into snorting laughter, the usual comment of "Language, Mr Prefect!", I dove into the pit of people and swum in Ozzy's wake.

By the time I made it to the bar, the swaggering wanker was gone. Expectedly, as Ozzyhad a way of diverting the attentions of people in a wholly amicable manner. He'd turned his attention fully towards the young woman's standing before her at arm's length. His gaze raked up and down her slender form appraisingly.

Justifiably enough, I would have to admit. She was gorgeous up close, all long limbs pale in the glow of the club made even more apparent by the thigh-length cocktail dress just discernible as green, the fitted bodice reflective in a mixture of chiffon and satiny material and thin straps that barely seemed capable of keeping it hooked on her shoulders. Strappy stilettos in matching green completed the ensemble, something shiny upon them reflected in a simple silver chain around her neck, one around her wrist and another sparkle of silver in the coil of half-pinned hair. I could just make out in the white-black colouring of the club the streak of green drawn through her fringe.

Al made a very pretty girl. _Very_ pretty, to the degree that I had to wonder at the magical involvement. I wouldn't have put it past Rhali's deception.

I was close enough to hear Ozzy when I ground to a stop. "… really outdid herself. I'm surprised you actually allowed her at you."

"It wasn't so much a matter of 'allowing' as 'let Rhali have her fun if I wanted to keep both my nuts'," Al replied with a roll of his eyes. Yes, definitely Al.

"Magic?" Ozzy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Al pouted, lifting his chin and striking a pose that should have been illegal for the things it did to my libido; Merlin, a set of legs had never looked so enticing. "What, you think I couldn't pull it off otherwise?"

Ozzy might have replied, except that, as though I'd spoke to gain his attention, Al abruptly glanced towards me. His suggestive smile faltered for a moment, became awash with a nervousness that was so typical of him, but his expression set a moment later. With barely a glance back towards Ozzy, he stepped towards me.

I was in a state of stupefaction. In fact, had it not been for the fact that Muggles ran rampart through the club, I would have almost assumed that I had been. I was aware that my mouth was hanging open, that my eyes were still peeled wide, and I probably looked like a right fool. But I couldn't speak, couldn't reassert my composure, because my brain was short-circuiting. Al… in a dress… with, yes, I could very definitely make out make-up painting his face, from the dark length of his eyelashes to the slightly shiny gloss on his lips and faint warmth upon his cheeks. Subtle but definitely there.

I never suspected I had such a kink. I probably didn't, actually – I mean, I wasn't all that partial to seeing guys in dresses, and certainly held no such inclination myself; other people were more than entitled but it wasn't my thing – but _Merlin_ , Al looked something else in that outfit.

Whatever nervousness he held was very well handled as Al stopped before me. He was nearly as tall as me in his heels – heels he actually managed to walk in as though he knew how – and we were close enough that I could see a faint, mother-of-pearl sheen to his cheeks. Was that part of the make-up? I had no idea, but couldn't put that much weight upon the importance of such.

A small, modest cousin of his suggestive smile played across Al's lips once more. "See anything you like?"

I couldn't speak. I simply staring at him, my eyes drifting up and down his figure as he stared back at me, a hand propped upon his hip. Al had always been slender and the cut of the dress accentuated that slenderness to femininity in a way that I didn't think could have been possible for a guy. Did he actually stuff the top with something to make him look more like a girl? I wasn't sure, didn't attend to the thought for long enough to discern either way. I was very aware of the dryness of my mouth; how did Al always manage to throw me for a loop? I was _never_ so unhinged by anything that anyone else did. Not ever.

Ozzy spoke for me, stepping up to Al's side and propping an arm upon his shoulder. Damn, had Ozzy grown taller again as well as bigger? I was suddenly very conscious of his superior height. "Well, if Scor isn't up to the game I'd be more than happy to oblige." He glanced sidelong at Al, who returned the glance with a raised eyebrow. "Care for a dance, sweetheart?"

I snapped out of it good and fast with that. Still unable to speak, I stepped forwards, latched onto Al's hand and tugged him from beneath Ozzy's arm to wrap my own around his shoulders. Casual as my friend was, it was no secret that he'd carried a flame for Al since he was twelve. Still did, to a degree, and I'd no doubt that regardless of our friendship, if Al should drop me in favour of Ozzy then he would rise to the party in an instant. He'd had a string of lovers but didn't even try to hide the fact that at least to him Al would always be in a group of his own.

It would have been almost sad if Ozzy had seemed to truly care all that much.

I was very aware of my understanding in that moment, with the appreciative, slightly incredulous and very amused gleam in Ozzy's eye as he grinned at Al. And Al, damn him, winked playfully back at him, just like every other flirtatious young person on the pull that filled the club. My senses became hyper-alert, of both Ozzy and every other wanker in our vicinity; if the bespectacled young man was anything to go by, Al's transformation of sorts was prone to drawing the attention of more than me. That shouldn't happen. Ever.

Glaring at Ozzy – he knew I didn't really mean it, even if I was half resentful in that moment – I spun around and drew Al towards the dance floor. We could have headed back to the table Rhali still coveted, but I abruptly didn't want to. I didn't really want to be around Ozzy or Rhali, nor did I want to ease the distance between myself and Al for even the space between sidelong seats.

Al, still tucked against my side with his fingers tucked just slightly into the waistband of my jeans, evidently realised as much. Laughing too quietly to be heard under the _thud-thud-thud_ of the music – though I felt it humming against my side nonetheless – he peered at me with a tilted head. Like a curious bird that held far too much cunning for innocence. "A bit possessive, are we?"

I finally found my voice as we stepped fully onto the dance floor. Turning into Al, my arms still locked around him – Merlin, surely the dress must have been magical; his waist wasn't that slender, was it? – I clicked my tongue. "Certainly. And don't you forget it, either." I had to nearly shout to be heard.

Al smirked. We hadn't started dancing really yet, but the slight swaying of almost-dance had captured us both. "That would be a little hard given that I have such an ultra over-protective boyfriend."

"There's nothing wrong with over-protectiveness."

"I think you're overlooking the 'over' part. It's an indication of excessiveness in case you didn't know."

I raised an eyebrow as Al's smile widened. "Well, can you blame me? Who wouldn't be when you show up like…" I tilted my head downwards, gesturing to his ensemble as a whole. "What on earth possessed you?"

"What, don't you like it?" Al asked, and for all of his offhandedness I could sense a hint of nervousness in his tone. Even after so many years Al still had to struggle with his anxieties sometimes. That knowledge made my mind up on the issue I hadn't even realised I'd been contemplating; it was _obviously_ not Al's idea.

Edging just slightly closer towards Al so that our bodies were all but pressed against one another amidst the grinding pool of bodies, I offered a small smile of my own. My composure – or my lucidity, perhaps – was crawling to the surface once more and I began to fully appreciate the situation, even buffeted by surrounding dancers as we were. I drew a hand in a caress around Al's waist, up his back in an appreciative gesture that surely even he couldn't misunderstand. The quelling of his nervousness suggested it did. "I never said I didn't like it. But points for the shock value."

Al smile became lopsided. Sliding his arms around my waist, he urged us into undulating rhythms to mimic the rise and fall of the music. I followed his lead, pressing against him more fully. "Not my idea; it's Rhali's birthday present to you."

"I guessed as much," I said, glancing towards the table that Ozzy and Rhali now filled, chatting lightly. "What possibly possessed her?"

"She took your comment on the dresses the other day to heart," Al explained.

It wasn't much of an explanation, though, and I was left frowning for a moment before I recalled our café meeting the previous week. I snorted in amusement. "She really takes the strangest things on board, doesn't she?"

"You bet. I'd have thought you'd have a better hold on your tongue by now."

Al's words carried a suggestiveness that probably even he didn't hear. I couldn't stop thinking about tongues for the mention of it, however. Leaning into Al – it was weird, though not necessarily in a bad way, that he was nearly as tall as I was now – I pressed my lips against his. He responded instantly, opening his mouth and allowing our dance of tongues to mirror our bodily motions. The smell of sweat and bodies sharpened as my eyes closed to simply taste Al, and I tugged him even closer to me, chest to chest, hips to hips, thigh sliding along thigh. When we finally drew apart, it was to find not only myself breathless.

"Happy birthday, Scor," Al gasped in a fashion that was far too erotic for the middle of a club and went straight to my groin.

I swooped in for another kiss before drawing away a second later to meet his gaze. "It certainly is now."

I didn't remember much of the specifics of the rest of the night. I knew that on several occasions Al and I stepped off the dance floor; I was the only one of us that drunk more than water because Al had quite sensibly given his past never really been inclined to losing his sobriety. Most of the time, however, we simply lost ourselves to the music. Ozzy joined us at times, though perhaps it was because of my birthday – or he was just respecting boundaries _as he should_ – but he didn't attempt to use the forum of the dance floor to try anything untoward. Rhali didn't join us, naturally, given the proximity of 'sweaty bodies reeking of animalistic lust' as she deemed it, and Ozzy drifted back to her side after a short trip of dancing to the thumping beat beneath whirling lights.

Mostly it was just Al and I dancing. Dancing and captured by the heady mixture of music, of our entwined bodies, of exertion that beaded sweat on the brow and drew breaths into pants. I kept myself pressed against him just as he did so to me, arms around waists, around shoulders, trailing along hips and carding through hair. I found myself falling to into him as I always did when we danced; often the two of us would take ourselves to the nearest club without Rhali or Ozzy to fall prey to the feverish madness that came upon us when in the heat of the moment. The sway of hips, the rock and swing of bodies, the toss of heads all beneath the jumping, ever-changing glow of the multi-coloured lights overhead… it did something to me. To us.

Though I still found it strange in the way that anything unfamiliar was strange, there was something about this time that was decidedly different. Whether it was just the dress itself, the fact that Al entirely naturally dolled himself up like a girl and drew more than one set of appreciative eyes, or that fact that in assuming that role, that femininity the simple garment entailed, Al had become somehow different himself, I didn't know. Because Al was different; even when on the dance floor amidst dozens of people, it would always be just the two of us in our own little world, completely oblivious to those around us. And yet even with that oblivion Al would be slightly closed, as he always was around other people.

Not that night. As though embracing aspects of a different persona entirely, Al simply let loose. He closed his eyes, lost himself to abandon, and though it was still him dancing only with _me_ , the awareness of those around us that he always held faded. Assuming a character, I detachedly realised. As though in wearing the character mask, his fear of observation by others was vanquished.

I found it intoxicating, that retreat of barriers. Captivating to witness even as I experienced it in the most intimate of ways. There was not a hint of restraint and as Al pressed himself against me, there wasn't even the slightest tension that he usually held, the tension that suggested he was doing so more for my need for contact than for his own – because Al didn't usually have that need, not in public.

Except that he did that night. Confidence radiated from him in a way I hadn't beheld before, comfortable in his anonymity. Our writhing dance, a struggle to fit to the music, was punctuated by bouts of desperately stroking fingers straining for contact, with Al's lips brushing along my neck as my fingers tightened in the folds of his skirt. I couldn't get enough of it, felt the feverish rush of sensation flushing my skin and demanding _more more more_. It could have been the drinks – I didn't even know how many I'd had – but my very vision felt blurry, my entire being centred around Al and the wonder that he was.

I'm wasn't sure which one of us suggested it first. Maybe it was a suggestion from someone else; I was vaguely aware of a few snorts of amusement and pointed remarks about our particular strain of dancing. Only vaguely, though; there were, after all, more important things cluttering my head.

"Le-leaving?"

"God, yes."

Whichever one of us initiated it hardly mattered. Without even pausing to swing past Ozzy and Rhali – I honestly didn't even know if they were still at the club – we stumbled off the dance floor, half carrying one another towards the door. We must have looked like a pair of drunks – which maybe at least I was – but I didn't care. I wouldn't seem to withdraw my arm from where it wrapped around Al, not even for a second.

The cool night air, not chilling but relieving, was a sharp contrast to the thickness of the club. That, coupled with the instant muting of the thudding music, with the replacement of dizzying, flashing lights for unwavering street lamps and a full moon overhead, and I may as well have plunged my head beneath an icily pumping tap. There was warmth in my cheeks, grogginess in my head, but the abrupt surfacing from the club's atmosphere made me suddenly more aware of a very localised warmth further below. I hadn't even realised how uncomfortably tight my jeans had become, but the reality almost made me groan when I did.

Al was breathing heavily at my side. The warmth of his arm around me in return was like a burn to draw my attention, a candle held to chilled fingers. I glanced down at him and my own breath caught in my throat.

He looked dishevelled, his hair half fallen from the coil it had been pinned in and – was it longer than usual? Maybe it was, I wasn't sure. His skin glistened with a mixture of that shiny make-up and a sheen of sweat, his lips parted and eyelids heavy. 'Ravished' radiated from him, and faint desperation from the way he clung to me, his body pressed to my side as though to reduce even an inch of space between us. I couldn't say I objected. My own arms were already making their purposeful way towards him, their intention to wrap around him and draw him flush against me almost aching in a steady thrum in my groin.

Our stumbles ceased as we nearly tumbled over the gutter's edge. On wavering legs the both of us, we turned in synchrony to meet each other's gazes. I was aware in a detached way that behind us, likely watching with the critical eyes of anyone observing drunkards, the bouncer and any lingering patrons were likely watching. I didn't spare them a second thought, not when Al drew a panting breath, swallowed audibly and abruptly dislodged an arm to wrap around my neck. He drew me towards him in a mess of heated kisses, the sounds of which even to my addled brain I recognised as being far more suited for the bedroom than the curb. When we finally drew apart it was to even heavier pants.

My forehead dropped onto his shoulder. My words came heavy and thick. "Al… Al, I… can we…"

"Fuck, Scor," Al gasped back, barely loud enough to be heard. "Please, dammit, fuck me."

I hardly needed any urging. "Gladly."

I couldn't remember if we made it to the Apparation point or if we just spirited ourselves back home in the middle of the Muggle street. I couldn't have cared less either way.


	3. Or... Maybe Not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Smut! That's all. Smut and fluff. Enjoy!

_~Albus~_

In hindsight, I was surprised we made it home without one or the other of us splinching ourselves. That in itself was a bit of a miracle.

At the time, though, I doubted I even would have noticed if I'd been one less an arm so caught up was I in the moment. In the feel of Scor, his warmth against my side, the sharp, musky scent of him, the sight of his feverish gaze upon me, lust-blown pupils meeting my own as we stumbled through the door of our flat.

Neither of us spared a moment to flick on the lights, to illuminate the scene. I didn't really care; the rest of my senses were on hyper alert and I didn't particularly need to see what was going on the appreciate how Scor felt, how he tasted, how he moved against me as we stumbled against one another down the dark hallway and into the living area. The kitchen, to be precise, though I didn't quite know how we decided on there. I didn't really care, either.

With a crash that knocked the breath from me, I felt myself slammed against the refrigerator. At least I thought it was the refrigerator; I wasn't sure. I was more focused upon the press of Scor's body against me, his lips against mine and his tongue sparking every nerve into sharp attention in my mouth. I was all too aware of his hardness pressed against my hip, straining against his jeans in a mimic of my own arousal. It was all I could do to keep my feet in the ridiculous shoes that Rhali had bought me and coached me so meticulously into gaining a competency in walking in. Like she would know; she's never worn heels in her life!

Scor's groan did things to my mind, derailing my thoughts and sending them crashing them into a mushy pulp. The sounds Scor made always had a way of doing that, not to mention the intensity of his glazed gaze, the feel of his hands upon me or the press of his body as he met my neediness I equal amounts. I blinked blearily up at him, fingers tugging through his hair in a way that I knew would drew more delicious sounds from him, tugging him more firmly into me to deepen our kiss. His hands grazed along my shoulders, rising to catch upon the strap of my dress, drawing around the waist of my bodice. Just like he'd been doing all night.

Scor seemed a little fascinated by the dress. Fascinated in an unprecedented fashion; not disgusted or with the obsessive fixation of an unearthed kink, but as though he were genuinely appreciating a thing of beauty. I couldn't say that it didn't make me feel just a little bit aroused just at the thought of it. I wasn't really partial to wearing dresses, hadn't even really considered doing so before, but if this was the sort of response that it elicited… I knew damn well knew – knew and revelled in the fact – that Scor just about worshipped me. Maybe not as much as I thought the bloody sun shone out of his arse, but it would be a near thing. But this? This was something different. I made a mental note that if not to thank Rhali then to at least cease my complaints over what she'd maliciously termed her 'loving birthday gift'. All that was missing was a bow tied around my neck, and not for lack of her trying.

My breath caught as Scor's fingers slipped up beneath my skirt. They drew in a caress over my thighs, sensitive fingertips grazing just enough to leave me panting and gasping. Or maybe that was Scor, I wasn't sure which. My temples throbbed in time with my heartbeat, thudding as a rush of blood flooded into my groin. I sucked on Scor's lip as, with practiced fingers, he tugged at my pants.

Wearing a skirt without pants was… a _different_ sensation. Perhaps it was a good thing I was too distracted to really give it any thought.

An instant later, even the passing consideration for my state of undress was shed from my thoughts. In a motion that I wasn't prepared for in the least, Scor grasped me, one hand to my thigh and the other to my waist, and bodily lifted me from the ground. I gasped, my arms locking around his neck as my legs naturally drew around him. Instead of shifting in an attempt to ease my burdensome weight in his arms, I let myself fall into his grasp and focused upon losing myself in his mouth, into drawing those delicious little shudders and moans from him with ever sweep of my tongue, every tug of my fingers through his hair.

Only to gasp when, propping me against the fridge once more, Scor slipped a hand beneath my skirt and wrapped his long, slender fingers around my arousal. My breath stuttered and I broke our locked lips with a smack. Dropping my chin, I pressed my forehead to Scor's shoulder as a spark of pleasure jolted through me. Careful touches became slow strokes, and I found myself to be the one moaning instead.

"Scor –"

Scor pressed a kiss to my ear, to the side of my neck, to the corner of my lips. I couldn't even respond as his hand continued its ministrations, could only lock my legs more tightly around him, my arms around his neck, and struggle to withhold the urges to rock my hips for _just more –_ more of _him._ The shudders that trembled through me as Scor's fingers worked their magic, caressing me with a familiarity that only the truly practiced could. Only to let out an admittedly pitiful groan as his fingers released their hold.

"If you don't mind," Scor whispered breathily in my ear. "I'd like to take you up on your offer."

It took me a moment to realise what he was referring to. When understanding clicked, I nodded my head fervently into his shoulder. "God, yes. _Please_. Anything you want."

Scor huffed a breathless laugh. "Is this my birthday present, then?"

I couldn't even respond as, to the sound of Scor's murmured charm, I felt his fingers slide into me. I blessed, as I always did, the glorious wonder of Maghdrag's Brew that meant we hardly had to wait, his fingers slipping into me was an oily coolness that left me shuddering once more. My head rocked backwards, eyes squeezing closed as I fell prey to the feeling Scor's fingers elicited in me.

An instant later, hefting me slightly with far greater ease than he should have been able to, Scor grasped my thighs once more eased himself inside of me. I loosed a long, drawn out moan, the heady thickness of him sliding with blessed familiarity into place. Scor's own groan was as broken and strangled as my own.

The fridge was an added player in the piece. I couldn't say it hadn't been used before but it was certainly making itself useful this time around. With the hard flatness of cold metal behind my, Scor's warm softness in front, I lost myself to the sensation of his rhythmic thrusting. Scor's fingers tightened almost painfully upon my thighs, my buttocks, reaching up to grasp my hip, but I could hardly find complaint. The angle of his penetration, the full weight of my body falling to meet his at every thrust, sent shooting sparks of light across my closed eyelids, volts of pleasure straight to the centre of my brain despite my neglected hardness. It drew moans from beneath my lips that were echoed by Scors grunts, by his breathy gasps of "Al… Al…"

And then, as he always would, Scor shifted me slightly, lifting and manoeuvring the clutching embrace of my legs and adjusted just enough so that with each thrust those waves of pleasure became tsunami's. I released a cry as he hit the bundle of nerves within me that triggered such an overwhelming torrent of sharp pleasure, so blinding it was almost painful. Each thrust hit again, again, and I could feel my climax mount with each passing second. Unbidden, I leant back into Scor, dropping my lips into the crook of his neck in more of a bite than a kiss, clinging to him tightly as his sharp jabs rocked me back against the fridge. Again. Again. Again.

"Al – I can't – I'm nearly – "

His words in my ear were what pushed me into teetering on the edge. The tightening of his embrace around me, however, the claw-like grasp of his fingers, the press of his torso into me, pressing me flush against the fridge, was what did it, though. His stomach rubbing in a painfully pleasurable bout of friction against my hardness, his erratic thrusts that sent their own crashing bouts of feeling coursing through me. In a feeble shout, muffled by my bite into Scor's neck, and I felt myself slam into the tantalising wall of completion, sticky wetness spilling onto my thighs. With a groan, a handful of jerking thrusts, Scor followed after me. I shuddered in the haze of pleasure as I felt his warmth suffuse me.

I couldn't let him go. Not throughout and certainly not after. Like a strangling vine, I kept myself wrapped around Scor, panting into his shoulder as he rapidly softened within me, remaining within me only through pressure of my own weight atop him. With a grunting grasp, however, Scor lifted me higher, into more of an embrace resting fully in his arms than wedged between himself and the fridge. I released a shuddering gasp as I felt him slide free.

In a stagger, under the combined effects of post-sex jelly-legs and my entire weight resting upon him, Scor spun us around until he propped me against the counter. More sat me atop the counter, really, though just as I retained my steadfast hold of him he kept his own arms wrapped around me. We were both panting raggedly, locked around one another, and as I always felt with Scor, as I always had, I couldn't bring myself to loosen that hold even for an instant.

Breath gradually returned until finally I felt like my heart rate had slowed enough for me to no longer be at risk of heart attack. I lifted my head from Scor's shoulder with slow grogginess and blinked into his eyes.

Damn, but Scor could pull off sex-mussed well. I knew he loves the immaculately groomed look but there is certainly something to be said for the messy hair, the heavy-lidded eyes, the pink flush to his cheeks and the wetness on his lips that his tongue unconsciously moistened. I couldn't help myself, leaning into him to press my mouth against his in a slow, chaste kiss. He returned in just as much achingly slow intensity as I offered. For something so brief, barely touching, it was weighted with passion.

"Happy birthday," I murmured into his lips.

"You already said that," Scor replied, though hardly in reprimand. I could feel the smile curling on his lips that I would barely have been able to make out in the dark, could hear it in his voice.

Tightening my arms around his neck to draw our chests flush against one another I kissed him once more. "Would you like your birthday present? You left too early this morning for me to give it to you."

Scor tilted his head to the side, frowning curiously before shaking his head and dropping his forehead to my shoulder as he tended to do in his post-sex haze. "I thought this was your present."

I shook my head, closing my eyes as I rested my cheek against the side of Scor's head. He slumped against me heavily and to be honest I was a little surprised he managed even that much. I half expected him to slide to the floor in a heap. I knew I certainly would have had the counter not been beneath me. The night had caught up with me after… five hours, I realised with a start, glancing at the luminescent clock on the microwave. Huh. Go figure. "It wasn't. That's Rhali's to you." I couldn't work up my prior indignation for the fact. I even sort of accepted it as her due, now. It seemed far less of an outstanding impossibility that Scor would actually _like_ to see me in a dress since he'd seen and appreciated it. I could still feel the weight of his incredulous, hungry gaze upon me from earlier that evening.

Scor shook his own head blearily into my shoulder. "I don't need a present. Not from you."

"Hey, that's a double standard," I murmured.

"Not really," Scor mumbled. "Just that you've already given me absolutely everything I could ever ask for."

I was silenced for a moment, my throat clamping with emotion at the weight of his words. Rhali's fun joke of a present, the dressing up, the making up, the flaunting around, all seemed juvenile in the face of such a confession. Scor always did that, always throwing me for a loop with his unexpected poignancy. I tightened my hold around him in the absence of words, clinging to him even more tightly and he returned the embrace in kind.

I wasn't sure how long we stayed there for, simply cradling one another. I would have liked to haveremained as such for longer, however, but the dampness staining the seat of my skirt was kind of uncomfortable. I shifted, fidgeting in my seat slightly.

Scor finally lifted his head, raising a questioning eyebrow and goddammit he looked so utterly ravish-able in his sleepy state. "Hm?"

I offered him a grimace and cast a an indicative glance down at the crinkled folds of my skirts. "I think the dress might be just a tad ruined."

"What?" Scor frowned for a moment before understanding dawned. "Oh. That's a shame."

"Mm. It's pretty."

"That it is." Scor paused. "Well, we could always get you a new one."

My eyebrows shot upwards and I drew back from Scor slightly to fix him with an incredulous stare. "You mean you actually like it? I mean, for real?"

Scor shifted uncomfortably, the slightly bashful flush painting his pale cheeks just visible. "You make it sound like a bad thing."

"You. You've got a fetish."

Rolling his eyes, Scor heaved a sigh. He only tightened his arms around my waist once more, however, dropping his head back to my shoulder. "I do not."

"Yes, you do," I persisted. A bubble of amusement fought to spring free through my lips. What were the odds? "You actually really do. Rhali was right."

"No I don't –"

"That all makes a lot of sense now. I thought you'd been developing a bit of a thing for fashion and refinement over the past few years." I pressed a kiss to the side of his head to ease the sincerity of my jest but couldn't help drawing it out. It was so much fun to tease Scor, even if it was a little cruel to do so on his birthday. "You really like dresses that much? Or is it the heels? The make-up? Would you like Rhali and I to take you out to get you one for yourself?" As soon as the words sprung forth an image presented itself starkly in my minds eye. Oh, now that I would _love_ to see.

Scor, however, snorted. "Not hardly. I don't like dresses – really, I don't – and I'm certainly not all that fond of them on _me_. I have no inclination to dress myself up like a girl, thank you very much."

I frowned without any heat, loosening my returned embrace about Scor to flick at the side of his head. He grunted but otherwise ignored the gesture. "Hey, speaking of double standards. You might find you actually quite like it. And besides, what's wrong with dressing up like a girl every now and then?" I couldn't say I liked it initially, but… well, after a week of practice it had kind of been enjoyable. Kind of. Even if I'd never admit as much to Rhali.

"Nothing," Scor replied, shrugging a shoulder limply. He bit back a yawn before continuing. "There's nothing wrong with it. I just don't really see myself in a dress is all. It doesn't appeal to me." He turned his head towards me and in the gloom of the kitchen I could just make out the faintest touch of blueness in his eyes. "You, on the other hand, pull it off remarkably well. Magic?"

"Nope," I said with a shake of my head. "It's all me. And the dress, of course. Rhali was very particular about it. Or at least Mary was."

"Huh," Scor huffed quietly.

I ran a hand through the tangled mess of Scor's hair. "You really actually think it looks good?"

Scor was quiet for a moment before answering. His hands traced over my back in gentle circles that I doubted he was even aware he drew. The sensation of the soft, body-warmed fabric against my back, rubbed into friction by Scor's fingers, sent a shiver down my spine. "I do. I think the dress is gorgeous –"

"See? Fetish."

"- but then I think you like great in everything. Jeans and t-shirts, robes, dress robes –"

"Even my incredibly attractive coveralls?" I asked with a playful smirk. A forceful smirk, because the weight of his words was heavy with sincerity. Always thrown for a loop…

Surprisingly, Scor nodded, eyes slipping closed. I would have wondered if he was even fully awake had he not spoken a moment later. "Even then. Al, you could wear a potato sac and I'd still think you were the most gorgeous thing in the world." And humming to himself, Scor slumped against me in an even heavier embrace.

I was left to cradle him, stunned. Wow. That was… wow, quite a confession. I knew Scor loved me, knew he adored me at least a little to the degree that I did him. But that… he seemed to be utterly blind when it came to me. Self-proclaimed fashionista that he was, he honestly thought… thought that _I_ …

My strokes became more like pets to Scor's head, grooming his messed do into a semblance of order. I felt my heart swell as it always did when I saw Scor as such, in his puppy-like sleepiness, in his puppy-like faithfulness. At each time he dropped his haughtiness and assumed façade to show me the squishy marshmellow he really was beneath it all. I found myself smiling, pure love welling within me.

Who wouldn't love the silly idiot? Even if he was a little blinded by his own love. _I,_ on the other hand, was very grounded in reality when I claimed that Scor was gorgeous, that he looked spectacular in everything he wore, because he honestly, truly did. There was a difference between our two claims. Seriously, there was. Still, it didn't dim my glowing, resurfacing affection in the slightest.

Shuffling in a swish of fabric to the edge of the counter, I slowly, a little achingly, unwrapped my legs from around Scor's waist. "Come on, love, let's head to bed. You're buggered."

 _"You're_ buggered," Scor replied crudely, snorting his amusement at his own witticism.

"Ha ha, you're hilarious," I sighed, but couldn't keep the smile from my face. Scor was prone to puns that carried barely a candle to his usual wit when he was drunk. It was like a measure – the worse the puns, the drunker he was. "Come on, off to bed."

"You'll come with me?" Scor asked, maintaining his hold on me as I slipped with a wince off the counter.

"Don't I always?" I replied, and wrapping my arm around his waist I drew him through our modest little flat towards the bedroom.

It might not have been much of a birthday, what with the fact that both Scor and I had been working for most of the day. And it might have been a bit of a rush job, with the literal climax reached only after midnight. Hell, I hadn't even given him his present yet. And it was a bloody good present too; he _should_ get it, and bloody well appreciate it.

But that could wait for tomorrow. It could wait until the weight of the night, our mutual weariness that had begun to drag over my mind in a blurry fog to mimic Scor's drunkenness, had dissipated some. It wasn't like there was any particular rush anyway, I reasoned, as we stumbled through the door to the bedroom. In a series of mutual scrambles, intersperse with curses and laughter, we disentangled ourselves from our clothing and somehow managed to clamber into the double bed without any major crises befalling either of us. I thought Scor was dead to the world even before his head even hit the pillow. My little birthday boy, all tuckered out. Funny that, though. Scor's birthdays – and mine, for that matter – never seemed particularly standout when compared to the rest of our days. Was that a bad thing? Or was it simply very good?

I fell to sleep, pressed against the warm softness of Scor lying half sprawled across me, with a smile upon my face. For sure, it _had_ to be a good thing. An extraordinary thing indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aaaaand... that's the end! Pretty sure it'll be the end of this series, unless miraculously my muse kicks into gear (not looking likely at the moment, sorry). Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. If you've got a second, please leave a review. I live for every one of them xx


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